


cable-knit sweater • hiatus

by starcat



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Pennywise (IT), Eddie Kaspbrak is So Done, Eddie is a Manager at an Office Job, Gay Eddie Kaspbrak, I don't know how to describe this, I’ll be tagging as I go, M/M, Mentioned Myra Kaspbrak, Not Canon Compliant, Richie Tozier is a Little Shit, Richie is Richie and we love him for that, There will be smut but this is apparently multi chapter now, thanks quarantine
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-24
Updated: 2020-07-20
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:48:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23296519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starcat/pseuds/starcat
Summary: He pinned it, consciously, to the fact that Richie and himself were both guys with similar tastes. Of course, it had to be that. It just had to be. He thought about everything they talked about – things Richie had joked about. His endearing jabs that Eddie responded to with witty, cutting remarks. The genuine laughter that would peel out of him, the way his eyes would light up behind his thick-rimmed glasses, and he would tilt his chin up just a little. The way sometimes, he had caught Richie just looking at him. Watching him, with something Eddie could only really pin as interest.As he crawled into bed, pleasantly drunk and warm with the alcohol in his veins, he continued to think about Richie. About the fleeting touches, how hot his skin was to Eddie’s touch, about how much he had felt comfortable there – more comfortable than he had ever felt growing up in his own home, or with his wife, or anywhere ever. Eddie didn’t want to think about it all too much – but he also couldn’t help himself.There was just something about him. Something he couldn’t shake – and Eddie wasn’t entirely sure that he even wanted to, anymore.- PREVIOUSLY TITLED: Shrimp Cocktail -
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak & Richie Tozier, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 8
Kudos: 58





	1. Cable-Knit Sweater

**Author's Note:**

> Twitter: @ starcatarchive

If there was one thing Eddie didn’t ever picture himself doing while he was still a (tragically unhappily) married man, it was going to parties. He had never really been a party person to begin with in all honesty, but with Myra breathing down his neck and over-analysing his every move, parties had been completely out of the question. He was more than happy to keep his socialising to predictable, smaller situations that he could somewhat control, rather than big swarms of people who reeked like alcohol and who-knew-what-else as terrible music blasted through the too-loud speakers.

It wasn’t like he was particularly _good_ at the whole being casually social thing either – he was far too highly strung, and he had this thing where when he got anxious (which was pretty much every situation, ever) he would begin talking about things like the weather, or stocks, or his _job_ and his job was never a good conversational topic. God, he didn’t even know what people even talked about at parties, what people wore, what people even _did_ beyond what he saw in movies and on T.V; and in all honesty, none of that really appealed to him at all. It wasn’t even a viable way for him to make friends, considering he was horrible at doing that in everyday situations as it was without the concern of what sort of drink he should drink to come off in a way that wouldn’t end in him being beaten up and called ‘faggot’ or something equally as degrading.

He hadn’t really been invited to parties during childhood – not that he was ever allowed to go to the ones he _was_ invited to – he hadn’t attended any parties in college (somehow), and now he was pushing 36 and he owned his own fucking apartment and earned enough money that he didn’t need to worry about sorting products from ‘lowest-to-highest’ anymore but he had _never been to a goddamn party and he was fine with that thank you very much_. And while he had been going a little off the rails during the _A.M_ (After Myra) period, parties were something Eddie could safely say were off the table. He would go on dates with guys from dating-apps, he would have casual sex (although that had taken him months to build up to, and he still had to admit he had issues with the whole idea, so it was something that he did sparsely), he would _sometimes_ not wash his hands before eating Chinese take-out while sitting on the sofa in the lounge room and watching whatever show he fucking wanted to ( _fuck you, Myra, and your incapability to watch anything but Days of Our Lives_ ); but he would never, ever, go to a goddamn, motherfucking party.

Until, apparently, he was invited to one.

It wasn’t like he had planned to accept the invite. In fact, every single _cell_ in his body, every single atom of his existence had screamed a united, valiant, and unmistakable ‘ _fuck_ no’. And yet, despite this, Eddie found himself pausing, shrugging a little sheepishly, and mumbling something along the lines of – ‘Sure, okay’. Why? He didn’t know. In fact, he had pretty much instantaneously regretted his entire existence as soon as the words had somehow left his mouth, and if he hadn’t been in the presence of a co-worker (a co-worker he didn’t even like, mind you; he was lazy and dumb, and Eddie was constantly having to keep correcting his mistakes, so he tried to not talk to him at all as it was – and the one time he did actually talk to him, he had accepted an invitation to some random party? Unforgivable. Time to change his entire identity, or just die at this point), he would’ve probably found the nearest mirror and screamed a solid ‘ _what the actual fuck is wrong with you?’_ at his reflection to make sure he wasn’t living in some dystopian universe in which he actually attended events compromising of people who drove his IQ down by a solid 5 points every time they opened their mouths. But he had enough self-pride and self-respect to grin and bear it until he got home and panic-researched party-related topics for a solid 4 hours to try and get an understanding of what exactly he was getting himself into.

By the time the night was through, Eddie had a rough understanding of what he was expected to do and wear, and he had texted Beverly to _please for the love of God come with me to this, I will literally pay you, just don’t make me go into this alone_. So it was safe to say he was fucked, and this had been a horrible turn of events, and maybe he was being a little bit dramatic but he would’ve quite preferred to spend a night with his ex-wife than go through with this whole thing. But if he didn’t turn up he knew he would be pussying-out on Greg From Floor 8, and he was not about to let him have that. So he sucked it up and decided that a few hours wouldn’t be the worst thing he had had to endure in his life (he had been married to Myra for 5 years, for example), and bought a new cable-knit sweater to make sure he at least _looked good_ if he was going to be miserable.

To her credit, Beverly was a good sport about it all. She had known him longer than most had; they had met in college by coincidence, and Beverly had pretty much single-handedly forced their friendship to develop into what it was today. Eddie would be forever thankful for that, as she had supported him through thick and thin. She had been there when his mother died, she had been there when he had married and divorced Myra, and she was there for him when he made stupid impulsive decisions like this one that he was too stubborn to back out of. If anything, she found it morbidly hilarious. She had always been a social butterfly, able to get along easily with everyone and everything, so she had a whole lot of experience with parties. Eddie figured that would help him get a bit of an upper hand, so he was feeling pretty confident by the time she came to pick him up from his apartment. That was until she put her hand on his knee and told him he looked like a goddamn _closeted youth minister going to a church event, and it was_ _too late to get changed now_ , so Eddie supposed this was just going to be the beginning of the end. He would just have to compensate for the upcoming disaster by getting ridiculously drunk and hope to avoid having someone vomit or spill anything all over his perfectly formulated, embarrassingly expensive outfit. Just the thought made him nearly give in to his perfectly valid desires and tell Beverly to turn the car around, but instead he scrunched up his nose and frowned out the window.

The second instance in the night that made Eddie nearly call it quits and turn on his heels was actually arriving at the venue. He hadn’t known exactly what he had expected, but it wasn’t… this. It wasn’t a proper venue as much as it was just a big house in a relatively nice neighbourhood; and Eddie honestly felt pretty bad for the neighbours who had to deal with all of this on a Friday night. But Beverly had already gotten out of the car, and told him to stop standing and staring at the house like a _freak_ and actually do something _normal people do for once_.  
“You never know. You might break that dry-spell you’ve been having.” She suggested as they began to walk down the footpath, her heels clicking against cement. The front yard was objectively nice, though there were already cans and bottles of alcohol strewn here and there, as if they had organically grown from the manicured lawn. Ah yes, he was sure something artistic could be said about that beyond Eddie crushing a can beneath the heel of his shoe.  
“Dry-spell?” He echoed, his tone distracted, his arms crossed over his chest. He was frowning, and he knew he looked far from approachable like this, but he wasn’t exactly interested in being approached anyway, so there was that.  
“Yeah, there might be some cute guys here, huh? It’ll do you some good. Stress-relief, get some of that tension out of your muscles, darling boy.” Her tone was sing-song as she patted the middle of his back encouragingly, and Eddie rolled his eyes. Jesus. Was he that pathetic? He hadn’t particularly been interested in relationships, and it didn’t help that every guy he had gone out with had been a total and complete waste of his time. He was fine with his day-to-day. Wake-up, run, work, go home, sleep, and repeat. He didn’t want to struggle to shoe-horn someone into his schedule lest he want his life to go back to the _B.M_ (Before Myra) period. God fucking forbid.  
“I’m here to prove a point, Bev. _Fuck_ Greg from Floor 8. I know he just invited me to this because he thought I wasn’t going to show. Joke’s on him. Fucking idiot.” He muttered, partially to himself as they stepped inside the building.

Eddie’s senses were instantly assaulted by a massacre of smells and sounds; loud music and voices, the smell of cigarettes and alcohol and sweat. It almost felt like some raunchy club more than a party, and Eddie couldn’t help but wonder what sort of person Greg from Floor 8 was in his free time that he was going to these sorts of things. There was so many people Eddie pretty much immediately felt suffocated, and he could tell he had definitely over-dressed for this. Great – he had wasted all that time researching, and Beverly had been fucking right. Now he had to be even more worried about choosing the right drink, considering he was already dressed like he was cruising for some dick, and he had no interest in further perpetuating that assumption some brutish, knuckle-headed asshole may have about him by picking out the _wrong goddamn thing to drink_.

Beverly seemed to be swallowed up by the pulsing crowd of people, and Eddie found himself alone, palms sweaty, knees weak— _something something_ spaghetti. He kept his arms crossed and he pushed his way through, hoping to maybe find a drink and somewhere he could hang out before he could duck out unnoticed after fulfilling his duty of _showing Greg where he could shove his goddamn stapler_. There certainly was a lot more people here than he had thought there would be; people moving and grinding and yelling over the too-loud bass, and the music was _terrible_ , and he was pretty sure this Pitbull song was at least a decade old but people seemed to _love it_. Eddie just scowled to himself, elbowing some guy in order to slip past him as he danced terribly with some woman with horrendous make-up skills.

It seemed like Eddie had been wandering for an eternity in some purgatory before he finally found somewhere he could grab a drink. It was busy, but a little less busy than the dancefloor (he assumed that was what that was), so he had at least a little space to breathe. People were just as loud and obnoxious, but luckily no one seemed to clue in to his existence; so he was free to take his time scrutinising what drink he was going to choose. It almost felt like a pick-your-poison situation, so he ended up grabbing a beer (he fucking hated beer) and pushing his way through people (he had given up at the apologies and ‘excuse mes’ at this point) as he decided to find his way up the stairs, sipping sparsely at his horrible choice of drink.

The second level of the house overlooked the dancefloor, so Eddie found himself taking a seat on an uncomfortable ottoman that was definitely straining his lower-back, to spend the next few hours people watching before he headed home and binged-watched Kitchen Nightmares. The ottoman proved to be more of a strain on his lower back than Eddie had expected, so he decided to stand up for a bit and do a bit of research into the house, to see if he could find out anything about the resident and possible party-thrower. It wasn’t Greg, for sure, he concluded safely as he found the listing for the house online. It was a shame, really – a house with such a hefty price-tag going to waste like this. He was scrolling through the listing when someone sidled up beside him. The person was standing _too close_ , and Eddie could feel the heat of his body through his sweater, and he purposefully didn’t respond. Instead, he continued scrolling and reading through descriptions of the luxury home, flicking through the photographs in the listing.

The person didn’t say a word, and out of the corner of his eye, Eddie could see that the person was a man – a very tall man, whose hands were occupied with two drinks. _Who even needed two drinks anyway?_ But that was as far as his deductions went, considering he was pretty busy trying to get the point across for the stranger to kindly – or unkindly, he didn’t care – fuck right off. But apparently, this person didn’t get the message. Instead, they continued to stand as close as ever, craning over to look at what Eddie was doing on his phone. When this happened, Eddie stopped mid-scroll, visibly scowling as he did so.  
“Can I help you?” He cleared his throat, hoping to God this guy would just _go the fuck away_. Talk about inability to read body and social cues. Idiot.  
“Nice place, huh? Thinking of trying to buy in the area?” _What sort of a question was that anyway?_  
“No. Especially not if I’d have to deal with this sort of bullshit every weekend.”  
“Bullshit? Naw, party-pooper. Who pissed in your beer, huh?” The guy had the nerve to gently nudge Eddie – or what he assumed was supposed to be a gentle nudge, that forced Eddie to take a stumbling step to retain his balance. He reeked like alcohol and cheap cologne, and Eddie was thoroughly disgusted. He didn’t reply, hoping the guy would _finally_ get the hint. Eddie wasn’t interested in conversation, let alone with someone who thought the best conversation starter at a party was _real estate_. Maybe Eddie’s conversational topics hadn’t been that bad after all, if that was the set standard here.

  
“Why are you up here, looking at the housing listing like a creep then? Trying to scout out houses for your Mormon-mission are you?”  
“Fuck off.” Eddie sneered sharply, and he _meant it_ , but the guy just laughed – a deep, genuine laugh that seemed to emerge from the fucking _depths_ of his stomach, and Eddie had had more than enough. For a moment, he thought his unwelcome company had finally gotten the hint as he moved away, but Eddie realised with horror that he had instead taken to standing in front of him, leaning against the balcony railing as he overlooked the party. Eddie took this chance to look up from his phone to scope out the current bane of his existence. He was _tall_ and broad shouldered, something that Eddie was usually pretty into, but all attraction was pretty much ruined by the horrendous shirt this guy was wearing.

It was genuinely offensive to his eyes, all bright colours and patterns and pictures, and Eddie wondered where someone could even buy such a fucking monstrosity, let alone want to wear it in public. He at least was wearing it with some decent looking jeans and some ratty looking Adidas. His messy, slightly curly dark hair needed a fucking haircut, tied back out of his face with an orange hair-tie, and Eddie was nearly crippled with legitimate loathing for the idea that this guy had thought turning up to _anywhere_ in that _offensive_ outfit was a good idea. Not to mention, the man who owned the house was obviously a millionaire, so it wasn’t like people here were drunken college frat boys who would applaud him on his audacity.

  
“I think everyone’s having a great time except you, man. You should loosen up, you know? We’re at a party at a beautiful house in a fancy-ass neighbourhood. What more could you want?” He was leaning over the railing a little, sipping from what looked to be a fruity-cocktail (one Eddie had wanted but had restrained himself from picking out as it was pretty much a flashing-neon-sign of ‘gay’ as far as he was concerned). In his other hand, he had what looked like a shrimp cocktail, something Eddie was pretty sure had died out in the 80s and was now making a comeback with this man’s kaleidoscope eye-assault of a get-up.

  
“I think it’s a waste that such a nice place is getting absolutely trashed. I wonder if the owner of this place even knows this is going on.” Eddie muttered hotly under his breath, shoving his phone into his pocket and trying desperately to think of an excuse that would get him out of this situation. Anything, really, would work fine for him. Maybe he would call it quits early, though he was sure Beverly would want to stay. The guy laughed again, seemingly amused by Eddie’s sharp responses rather than offended (goddamn it), finishing his cocktail and promptly placing the glass precariously on the bannister. God forbid it fall and shatter and turn the party into an impromptu game of Clue. He didn’t seem to care though.

  
“Oh, but you see, sweater-guy,” _oh God no_. Eddie felt his face contort in visible displeasure as the man’s voice dipped into the realms of dramatic, his shrimp cocktail becoming something of a prop as he turned on his heels. If Baz Luhrmann had been God in that moment, maybe Eddie would be in the presence of a handsome Leonardo DiCaprio announcing his identity as Gatsby with the billions of stars of fireworks twinkling behind him in a dazzling display. But Baz Luhrmann wasn’t God, and this wasn’t some luxurious party in the 1920s, and it wasn’t Leonardo DiCaprio revealing his identity with enigmatic charm. It was some sweaty party in a prissy neighbourhood in Chicago, and the guy in front of him was wearing the worst outfit he had ever seen, holding a shrimp cocktail, and wearing goddamn shutter glasses like he had never lived past the early 2010s. Eddie, in that moment, wished he honestly hadn’t lived past the early 2010s, so he wouldn’t have had to experience that moment ever in his life. “I know exactly what is going on.”  
“So you’re throwing a party in some millionaire’s house? Great, would you excuse me while I call the fucking cops?”  
“No--! What? No. Dude, this is _my_ house. I own this place.”  
“…Bullshit. You do not. I’m calling the cops.”  
“Don’t call the fucking—oh my god. You—these glasses, I swear to god—” He grinned triumphantly as he pushed his shutter shades out of his face, revealing another pair of glasses right underneath. Eddie wanted to physically pass away in that moment, and he could tell his face was as emotionless as ever as he considered viable options of how he could make an escape out of a second storey window. The man grinned at him widely, pointing to himself as he did. Eddie looked at him, arching an eyebrow, and the man just waited, frozen in place like he was expecting something to happen. Tense minutes passed, and Eddie was beginning to think that this guy was a genuine basket case, and it took him reaching for his phone slowly for the man to finally move. Instead, he laughed, and Eddie was beginning to think maybe this _was_ going to transform into a game of Clue, except he was going to be the fucking victim because this guy was a genuine psychopath.

  
“Yeah, haha. Those glasses are like a fucking superhero disguise or something. No one knows who I am when I wear them.”  
“I have no idea who you are.”  
“Yeah, right? Haha! It’s like I could literally go by any other name, and it’s only when the glasses come off that people realise that hey, it’s me! Richie!”  
“I actually, legitimately, have no idea who the fuck you are. And this is definitely not your house.” Eddie was as deadpan as he physically could manage to be, but this only made the guy – Richie, apparently – laugh even more, walking over and slapping Eddie’s back _hard_. Eddie winced, shoving his arm unceremoniously because what the fuck, even.  
“Oh, you’re hilarious dude. You’re one of those actors, right? I think I recognise you. What’s your name?”  
“I have to go.” Eddie was _not_ giving this guy his name and a subsequent chance for him to possibly find him and turn this into a whole crazy stalker situation. He didn’t want some guy who purposefully, unironically ate shrimp cocktails, threw illegal parties, and wore the outfit equivalent to a nauseating migraine to be his stalker. No, he’d much rather just be assassinated by someone in a well-tailored suit.

  
“Oh, come on,” Richie laughed, his hand lightly grabbing Eddie’s arm, and his hand was _huge_ and Eddie promptly yanked his much smaller (in comparison) arm away because _he could snap him in half like a twig if he so much as sneezed in his direction_. “At least give me a name, huh? I came up to compliment you on your sweater, but I think I got distracted and kinda carried away when I realised you were scoping my place out on google dot com.” He popped his lips, and Eddie gave him a tight lipped smile, trying to manoeuvre his way away from him.  
“Haha, no thank you.” He managed, his heart beginning to thump in his chest as he started to feel his irritation start to shift almost entirely to nerves. It was possible that maybe he ought to feel a bit more threatened than annoyed – he was a big guy, and he looked like he was pretty strong, and he had _followed Eddie up the stairs_ , and Eddie could feel his fight or flight instincts start to kick into over-drive as Richie stepped closer. His smile was friendly, but Eddie had watched one too many crime documentaries to trust anyone at this point. Not even himself.  
“Come onnn. Just a name, and I’ll let you go. I’d love to do business with you or something sometime,” he was leaning in close again, and Eddie’s heart was beating so hard he felt like he was going to have a heart attack, “it’s hard to find genuine, cute guys like you in the business.”

It happened all at once, before Eddie could comprehend anything that had happened in the last 10 second period. Richie, who had been stepped close to Eddie and had been leaning forward, using the bannister as some sort of anchor somehow slipped a little – his hand sliding down the banister. He grabbed onto it with a curse and a stumble, and Eddie’s eyes widened as the cocktail glass in his hand upended.

They both stood there in silence, frozen in place as the situation sunk in slowly. Eddie wasn’t even sure he remembered how to breathe.  
“Ohmygod.” Richie exhaled, his eyes wide behind his thick frames as he looked at Eddie, colour and playfulness completely drained from his face. “Holy fuck. Oh my god. I am so sorry.”  
Eddie blinked, looking down at his cable-knit. There were shrimps at his feet, decorating the floor in a morbid display, and Eddie could not believe that this Richie guy had just upended an entire shrimp cocktail onto the front of his _brand-new cable fucking knit sweater_. Richie was apologising profusely, attempting to wipe at the sauce to no avail. Eddie held up a hand, taking a deep inhale as he felt the familiar bubbling up of anger start to simmer beneath his skin. Breathe, Eddie. Breathe, breathe, breathe _breathe breathe breathe--_  
“You absolute fucking _idiot_.” He exhaled as he pointed directly at Richie, his eyes narrowing. All panic had dissipated into rage, his body hot because he _really loved this fucking sweater and now it was fucking ruined_. “Do you have _any_ idea how expensive this sweater was? No, you don’t. Because you dress like a thrift-store reject dumpster meets Sesame Street, so how would you know the first thing about how much a decent, woollen cable knit costs? Considering this isn’t even your house, yet you pretend like it is so you can impress some guy who is _clearly not interested in you_ at a party you’re throwing – illegally, by the way – I can pretty safely assume that you have less money to your name than I spend on fucking toilet paper per week. And I live _alone_.” Eddie grabbed the hem of his sweater, pulling it furiously over his head and throwing it at the bigger man, who was standing in stunned silence, his jaw hanging slightly slack as he seemed to process what exactly Eddie was throwing in his direction. And God, was he fucking throwing. “Fuck you and fuck your shrimp cocktail. How about you do everyone a favour, take those ugly ass shutter shades and shove them right up your ass. Far enough that it’ll maybe push a reset button in your goddamn cerebellum. You fucking _donkey_.”

It was only by the time Eddie got home, had an angry shower, and got into bed for the night that he realised that in his fit of anger, he had left his poor cable knit in the hands of the cable-knit-murdering-shrimp-cocktail-eater named Richie. He wasn’t even sure if that was his name at this point, but it was safe to conclude he wouldn’t have been able to save the garment from such a horrible fate. It nearly kept him from sleeping – but then he remembered that Greg from Floor 8 would have nothing to hold against him, and that Eddie was still superior to him in every single way. And that thought was what managed to guide him into sleep.


	2. Mr. Oakwood and Wentworth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mr Oakwood is supposed to call Eddie, but somehow Richie got his number.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I guess this is multi-chapter now?  
> I was thinking of including some screenshots of text messages, but we'll see.  
> Bonus: https://youtu.be/cXoCgUDk8SI

If Eddie were to say that he had nearly forgotten about the shrimp-cocktail-incident in the months following the one and only party he had attended ever in his life, he would be blatantly lying. Even though his life went back to the routine that had long been established, and he _liked_ it that way, he found himself ruminating about the incident at least once a day.

At work, when it was a particularly slow day, or while he was eating dinner, or while he was unable to sleep at his usual time (9pm during the weekdays and 10:30pm on the weekends), he found his mind turning the events over and over in his brain. The more he thought about it, the less sense it made. He had more questions than he did answers, and he was sure the whole experience was just going to contribute to the plethora of things that left him unable to maintain good sleep hygiene. He found himself glaring at Greg during work whenever he would come up to his floor, wondering how in the fuck he had managed to get involved with the sort of crowd that threw such events in the houses of unnamed millionaires. It was the same Greg who he had seen wearing Crocs and socks to the annual company barbeque two months ago. But then again, all things considering, the man who he had met at the party had also looked like a walking disaster. So maybe Eddie had just missed the memo and dressing like a tragedy was the new best thing. Surprisingly, on his way home from the disastrous event Beverly had told him that she actually knew the man who’s house it was, that he was some up-and-coming comedian personality who was, as she eloquently put it _kinda fucking weird, like eccentric, but not in a bad way I think_. Beverly knew everyone, so while it had caught Eddie off guard initially, he wasn’t too shell-shocked at the discovery. She was a successful fashion designer after all; half the time, when Eddie brought up a celebrity in conversation, she would drop the bombshell that she had worked with them at some point for some reason.

At least Eddie’s question regarding the legality of it all was answered, though more promptly popped up in their place. Where had this guy been during the party? What sort of person would risk their house being completely destroyed by a swarm of strangers? Beverly had said he was weird, sure, but he wasn’t sure if it came down to that factor, or the man simply being an idiot with too much money in his bank-account. Either way, Eddie’s frustration and anger quelled somewhat, replaced more with a curiosity that he couldn’t seem to shake. He would even shamefully admit that he tried to find out more about the house at one point, but ended up stopping himself before he got too lost in it because he was acutely aware he was being a creep about the whole deal and he just had to _let it go_. And for the most part, sort of, he did.

As the months passed with little to no excitement beyond having to occasionally talk (civilly) with his ex-wife, Eddie found that he would attempt to spice it up here and there by going to bars after work on Fridays, and sometimes go out on more unsatisfying dates. Work was work was work, and he had decided to bite the bullet and get a gym membership. He was still working up to actually going to it (gyms were actual petri-dishes for all sorts of things, the internalised voices of both his mother and ex-wife made sure to remind him) but it was a development, nonetheless. Eddie didn’t live a particularly exciting life, but that was the way he preferred it. He didn’t want to live an exciting life. He just wanted to be able to follow his routine and enjoy things that were bordering on the very edge of his comfort zone and maintain the predictability and control that kept him from losing his entire mind. If that meant that the most riveting thing to happen to Eddie within the week was finding out that someone had stolen Theresa’s French-onion dip out of the communal fridge, than boy, Eddie would ride that thrill-train all the way to excitement city. The fates, however, were bitches; and they had other plans for him.

The phone-call in question came in at 2:35pm on a Thursday afternoon. It had been a particularly sluggish day and an even slower week, and Eddie had been chipping away at a particular account since he had gotten in that morning. He had been making calls since before he had clocked in, and had been expecting one to come in at around that particular time, so when his line rang he barely let it ring through once before promptly picking it up.  
“Hello, Edward Kaspbrak speaking.” He was tapping his pen to his lip, looking over the same spreadsheet he had been staring at for hours at this point, his brows furrowed as he concentrated. When the gravelly, deep voice of his client – Mr. Oakwood, in this case – didn’t respond immediately though, Eddie found himself sitting back a little in his chair (with excellent lumbar support, if anyone were to ask) and pulling his gaze from the rows and columns and decimals. “Hello?” He repeated, frowning as he checked that he hadn’t accidentally put his phone on mute.

  
“Oh, yeah, hey.” That was definitely _not_ Mr. Oakwood. Firstly, Mr. Oakwood would never dream of starting his conversation with a casual ‘oh, yeah, hey’ considering they were managing shitloads of money here. Secondly, Mr. Oakwood sounded like an old Hollywood gangster from the films Eddie had watched growing up – not some guy right off the curb who sounded most definitely like he had called the wrong number.  
“I think you might have the wrong number, sorry. This is Edward Kaspbrak, this is my office line. Sorry, they must have redirected your call to the wrong person. Let me just get you into contact with Samantha at reception—”  
“Oh, no- no, hold on! Hold on. I think this is the right number. At least I fucking hope so, I’ve been calling rando’s left-right-and-centre for like, the past gazillion days and I am fuckered.”

  
Eddie was silent for a few solid seconds, his spreadsheet completely forgotten as he sat in his office chair with his face scrunched up in clear confusion and borderline disbelief. He was holding his pen in the air like the fucking statue of liberty, his gaze fixated at his reflection in the window as he considered firstly – how the fuck had he gotten to this point and secondly – who the fuck was calling him, on a Thursday afternoon, that used a vocabulary mirroring that of a middle-schooler with a horrible attitude?  
“I definitely think you have the wrong number I apologise. This line is for clients only. I have to clear the line, I’m expecting a call from somebody any moment regarding his finances – I’m sure you can understand—”  
“Ugh, you’re Eddie… Eddie? Eddie Kasp—Kasp… what was it? Clapback? This won’t take long, just gimme a mo’.”

  
Eddie sighed heavily, placing his pen tenderly on top of his paperwork, crossing his arms over his chest and continuing to frown at himself. Luckily everyone was pretty busy, so he doubted anyone would be coming into his office to discuss anything important with him any time soon. And he was sure he could spare 5 minutes to humour this… person who had somehow gotten hold of both his name and his office number. The real question was how in the holy fuck he had managed to be redirected through to Eddie’s line. Were reception even paying attention to who they were guiding through company lines anymore? He would have to have a stern word with Samantha at some point later in the day.

  
“Yes. Edward Kaspbrak, as I’ve said twice already. Who is this?”  
“Wait, like—ok, hold on. I gotta make sure—you’re like, short, right? Kinda angry looking. Big eyes, face like someone just kicked your dog. Brown—brown hair—oh, fuck off, they forgot the fucking aioli. Sorry, I’m on my lunch break between meetings right now. Fuckers forgot my fucking aioli and I don’t got the time to go back and Karen-it-up, you know what I mean?”  
“I have no idea what you mean. I—What?” Eddie blinked, taking a moment to stare at his phone incredulously as if he was expecting this all to be a stress-induced auditory hallucination. Maybe finally he had been pushed to the brink. Maybe this was it, the day he snapped and pulled a Norman Bates. Or at least threw the filthy communal fridge out the third floor window. “I have brown hair, yes. Is this a sales call? I’m not interested in buying anything.”

  
“Good enough. You sound about right. It’s uh—” Eddie could hear a sudden rush of traffic in the background of the call, and Eddie impulsively looked out his window. As if he could see the people in the street below, let alone pin-point who was wasting his goddamn time. “It’s Richard. Fuck, I haven’t said my full name in like, ever. But it only feels right, ‘cause you introduced yourself as like, Edward or whatever. But anyway, it’s Richie.”'

  
Eddie wished that he didn’t recognise the name. And he wished that the pieces didn’t fall together like they did, perfectly aligned and in place. He wished he had to go through a mental phonebook of all the Richies he had ever met (approximately 6, he guesstimated) and pick out the one in particular that was making this call. But he knew. He knew straight away, and Eddie closed his eyes as he pressed a finger to his temple and breathed in deeply. Suddenly, he felt a tonne more stressed than he had the entire week.

“Hello? You still there, Edu-ward-oh?”  
“Why are you calling me? And how in the hell did you get my number?” Eddie replied sharply, and there was a laugh from the other end and it was the same laugh from the goddamn party. It really was the Great-Gatsby-Failure he had met and hoped to never cross paths with again. He was getting a fucking migraine and he didn’t want to take the rest of his day off because of this douchebag.  
“Oh, haha. Yeah, it’s you. Finally. Fuck, I was calling people out the yazoo to try and find ya. Anyway, gotsa make this quick ‘cos I got like 15 minutes left and I gotta eat my lunch. And you sound like… busy. Boring-busy. You’re welcome, in advance, for being the best phone-call you’re gonna get all day, Mr. Monopoly. Any-hoe, I got ya number from some guy. I think you work with him. You would not believe, man, I’ve been tryin’ to track you down Cinderella-style for months. I had to like, find out who was at the party and then contact them all and ask them if they knew the guy who wore the white knit pull-over and who was like, 5ft.”  
“I’m not 5ft, _excuse me_? Fuck _you,_ I’m—”  
“So, I’ve been trying to do this hardcore for months. And I’m at the end of my list, right? Thinking maybe I was like, too trashed to be able to remember anything, and I only had this ruined sweater. Better than a shoe, but still doesn’t help. But then I get into contact with this guy – Greg – who knows a guy who knows a guy who knows a guy. And he’s like, oh, yeah, I know him. I work with him, here’s the number you gotta call. I googled you, and the photos I could find of you on business-y websites definitely look like you, but you look different not in like – a white sweater. So I called you, and it’s you! So finally, my search is over. Thank the good Lord, Hey-soos.”

  
Eddie didn’t know what to say. He was frozen in place, trying to process what in the hell was being said to him. He knew, logically, that it was English. And he understood it to a point, but it almost felt like he had been bestowed some magical sort of power of insight into some long-forgotten ancient language. The language of the man who had never aged past fifteen, it seemed.  
“What do you want?” He finally managed to echo, his confusion clear in his voice, as well as his definite irritation. There was the sound of a wrapper being opened, and the slamming of a car door, and Eddie opened up an email because he just knew he was going to go home early today with a killer migraine. He could feel the stress-tension build up already. “Do I have to call the police? Please don’t contact me. I don’t know you.” Another bark of laughter, and Eddie visibly flinched, trying to smooth out his brows with his free hand with no avail. What had he ever done to anger God enough for this to happen to him?  
“Oh, yeah. So, I got your sweater still. I was wondering if you wanted it.”  
“No.”  
“Oh, come _on man_ , I—you can’t be serious. I’ve been tryna find you for months, and you’re gonna dog me like this?”  
“Yes, I am going to _dog you like this_. I don’t want the sweater. Especially not with like, months-old-stains from that disgusting seafood you were eating that night. Just having it in close proximity to me could potentially trigger an allergic reaction or something. It’s a miracle none of the shrimps touched me, or I would have had to be taken to hospital that night.”  
“Haha, right. So, regarding this uh… sweater. When and where? I’ll just give it to you, I swear. No funny business. I also want to apologise. It was super uncool, you know, the whole shrimp-cocktail-incident. Please, let me apologise. I promise it’ll be quick and it won’t be weird.”

  
Eddie let out another long, audible sigh. He ought to hang up – but he knew, somehow, that if he did Richie would just find another avenue to contact him by. And if the front desk had let him through on the phone, what if he decided to turn up in person? Or worse, with a weapon? Maybe he wasn’t Norman Bates, after all.  
“Fine. Okay. Let me just check my calendar.” Eddie muttered, pulling open his planner and squinting at it. He ignored the chuckle and the ‘ _ooh, busy man, busy man’_ , figuring it wasn’t worth the fuss. “I have some time next week. Wednesday, around… 11:35am? I can meet you wherever.”  
“Coolies. Itsa date.” Richie replied brightly, and Eddie rolled his eyes. What in the fresh hell was he doing? He could only hope that indulging this apparent singular request would mean that he would never have to revisit this chapter of his life ever again, and he could go back to worrying about the Mr Oakwood account, but there was a feeling of impending doom in the pit of his stomach that made it hard to convince himself of anything except that this man was completely unhinged. “I’ll text you an address. I gave my mobile to reception. Just shoot me a PM. Promise I won’t spam ya.”

Mr Oakwood did end up calling, two minutes following the conclusion of the conversation Eddie had had with a certain Richard-Richie. And as much as he hated to admit it to himself – and he would never admit it if anyone were to inquire – Richie had been right. His call had been the most interesting thing of the week, or even the month. And there was a part of him, a small, annoying part of him, that was curious to know how on Earth this was going to end.

*

For the first time in a long time, Eddie was impatient.

His usual schedule was completely thrown off kilter by the single call and handful of texts he had received from Richard-Richie-From-The-Party, and he found that Wednesday couldn’t come soon enough. He wanted to get this done, he told himself. Get it over with so he could return to his normal, slow-paced life, where the biggest issue he had to consciously face was Myra. He was comfortable, and this development had made him decidedly uncomfortable. He had it all planned out – he had told Beverly where he was going, and what to do if he didn’t text her a certain thing at a certain time, just in case things went south. He knew what he was going to wear, what he was going to say, what he was going to order.

Surprisingly, Richard-Richie had picked out a place Eddie knew and quite liked. Here was to hoping he didn’t ruin that place for him, but he wasn’t really betting on anything beyond discomfort at this point. Eddie ended up clearing his schedule before and after the meeting time, just to give him some time to work up to and down from the event. So, in the broader sense, Eddie was prepared. And yet, he felt completely unprepared and out of his depth as the day arrived at his doorstep. He had learned from his previous mistake of wearing something new to something he was nervous about, so he ended up pulling on an old sweater from Hilfiger. It was dark navy, not white, so it stood a better chance in the case that his company decided to once again decorate his clothing with a splash of beverage or snack. He brought a spare change of clothes – every single clothing item, down to the shoes – to his office that day in case things went really, _really_ bad.

Concentration was not on his side for the hours Eddie had before the meeting. He was trying to sort out some mistakes Greg had made (of course) but couldn’t get his head out of the anticipation for meeting up with Mr. Obnoxious. He hoped to God the outfit he wore was better than that from the party – certainly, it couldn’t be worse. But then again, he could be proven wrong. So, to ensure that he wasn’t about to pull a Greg and make even more mistakes on-top-of-mistakes, Eddie called it in for the morning and decided to get ready for the meeting. It wasn’t a meeting, Eddie told himself, more than it was a friendly (allegedly) exchange of an apology and Eddie’s property, but Eddie felt like he was about to do a presentation in front of the CEO of his goddamn company again. It was safe to say, he was shitting himself.

He made sure he didn’t look it though; he arrived at the coffee house at 11:35 sharp, reciting the name he had been given over text (‘ _Wentworth_ ’ – a far cry from Richard-Richie but he wasn’t going to ask. Or maybe, he was). He was led through the establishment towards a booth tucked away in a corner, and Eddie thanked the waitress as he took a deep breath and made his way over. His heart was pounding so hard he felt he was going to go into cardiac arrest right there and then, and he was thankful he had brought along his inhaler because at this rate, he was going to need it.

Richard-Richie-Wentworth was sitting in the very corner of the booth, tucked away from the sight of anyone who didn’t know he was there. Eddie hesitated for a second as he considered if he was _really going to do this_ , and for a moment he was seriously contemplating walking out before the other man looked up and spotted him. Ah, fuck. He had to go through with it now. He shot Beverly a text with his clammy fingers as Richard-Richie-Wentworth gave him a broad smile and a wave.  
“Hey, Eddie Clapsmack! What a surprise to see you ‘round here. Come, sit down.” Richie motioned for him to sit opposite him, and Eddie slipped into the booth a little awkwardly, placing his hands in his lap. Richie looked a lot different now than he did when he had been at the party. For one, he looked a lot less ridiculous. He had gotten a haircut, and he wasn’t wearing shutter-shades. Instead, he was wearing huge but normal glasses that sort of magnified his eyes just that little bit. Stubble dusted across his cheeks and chin, and while his shirt was still pretty hideous, it wasn’t as much of an eyesore as the party-shirt had been. And, there wasn’t a godforsaken shrimp-cocktail in sight. He looked like a normal guy, albeit a little bit more like Ace Ventura than the average Joe. But he looked… pretty alright. A bit scruffy, and rough-around-the-edges, but he wasn’t a bad looking guy. He was kind of cute, in a lost dog sort of way. Eddie pursed his lips, and he cleared his throat, and Richie was staring at him like he was expecting him to say something. So, he cleared his throat again, crossing his arms over his chest.

  
“It’s Kaspbrak. _Wentworth_. Why on earth did you choose that horrible fucking name for this reservation?” Eddie finally blurted out, and Richie snorted, pointing a finger (he had big hands. He had noticed how big he was at the party, but he was actually, properly large. Like, his hand could cover Eddie’s entire face if he wanted it to. Come on Eddie, don’t even begin to go _there_ \--) right in Eddie’s face accusatorily.  
“Wentworth is my father’s name, firstly. Secondly, it’s my second name and my public alias. So, fuck you, lastly.” He grinned, and Eddie raised his eyebrows.  
“You’re kidding. Public alias? What are you, James fucking Bond?”  
“Wouldn’t you like to know, huh?” Richie snickered, “If I told you, I’d have to kill you. Naw, I’m kidding. I just don’t want anyone knowing I’m here.”  
“Your parole officer? I’m sure it’s worth going back to jail to fulfil your weird creeper fantasies.”  
“I’m not going back to jail over meeting you to return your sweater. Plus, it’s a noble deed. So, I don’t think it counts, right?” Richie shrugged, grabbing the menu and sliding it across the table towards Eddie. He scrunched his nose up, letting it slide off the table and onto the floor beside him. Richie looked at him in confused amusement, seemingly unable to shake the grin from his face. To his credit, it suited him. “Order what you want. I’ll put it on my bill.”  
“I can afford it.”  
“Yeah, cool, but this is supposed to be my whole apology thing. So, let me at least pay for your order.”  
“No.”  
“You don’t have a choice in this. You’re here, so you’re letting me pay for your order. Don’t make a scene. I swear to god, I am not in the mood for paparazzi right now.”  
“Paparazzi? What are you even talking about? Is this like how you tried to convince me that you owned that house?”  
“Right, that’s what I’m talking about Eds. You have the right idea.”  
“Eds—No, it’s Eddie, not Eds. Don’t call me that. I—what are you talking about? I’m not talking about anything—you’re full of so much shit.”  
“Exactly. Perfect. Keep that up.”  
“Keep what up?” Eddie felt himself start to get irritated, his voice rising as he gritted his teeth in frustration. Richie’s big grin faltered for a second, and his brows furrowed as he looked at Eddie like he had grown a second head.

  
“You know… pretending not to know who I am. The ‘oh, who are you, you’re a liar,’ thing.”  
Eddie sat there, looking at Richie. He was sure he looked just as confused as the other man did, glaring at Richie. He was absolutely clueless as to what this man was on about. Had he missed something? Evidently he had. Richie’s shoulders slumped, and his brows lifted as a realisation seemed to dawn upon his features.  
“ _Oh._ ” Was all he said, and he looked at Eddie weirdly, leaning forward across the table just a little. He smelt good, Eddie noticed, even if he could smell cigarettes and bourbon on his breath. “You’re not kidding.”  
“Of _course_ I’m not kidding. Do I LOOK like I’m kidding? At what point have I ever looked like I’m fucking joking, are you serious? I have no idea what you’re fucking going on about—”  
“I thought—because I’m a comedian—”  
“I’m not a comedian! Why would I be joking? I work in _finance and insurance_ , what makes you think I would joke about anything when I don’t even know who you are?” Eddie could feel a few wait staff looking in their direction, and Richie shot him a sharp look, evidently trying and failing to get Eddie to lower his tone of voice.  
“Hey, okay, dude, it’s fine. It’s cool. Just—chill out. I don’t want people coming over here, okay?”  
“What, are you a fucking felon? Oh my god, I shouldn’t have come to this—this was a horrible idea. I’m leaving—”  
“ _No_ , I’m not a fucking—would you shut the fuck up for one second? Jesus Christ, Edward whatever, let me at least fucking explain—” Richie grabbed Eddie’s arm again, like he did at the party, and Eddie yanked his arm back harshly, shooting him a withering glare. “Sorry. Just, hear me out.” Richie muttered, and Eddie scowled, slumping back against the seat and crossing his arms over his chest defensively. Before he could reply, a waitress took their order, and it was quite clear she was uncomfortable by the palpably awkward and tense atmosphere in the booth.

  
“Okay. Go ahead. I have a busy schedule, and you’ve fucked me around enough.” Eddie granted, and Richie visibly seemed to relax.  
“I’m Richie Tozier.” There was a pregnant pause, and Eddie motioned for him to continue. “Dude, seriously? I’m a famous comedian. Like, I’m just secured a deal with Netflix. My show comes out in like, five months. I go on tour all the time.”  
“I’ve never heard of you.” Eddie stated flatly, and Richie looked genuinely offended for a moment, crossing his arms as he regarded Eddie sceptically.  
“Well, I mean, I guess you’re not exactly my target audience.”  
“What is that supposed to mean?” Eddie interjected, sitting up more as Richie gave him a shit-eating grin in return, picking up a packet of sugar and jiggling it in his direction.  
“It means that you’re boring as _fah-uk._ I mean, you said so yourself. You work in finance and insurance. How did you end up at my party anyway?” He asked, resting his chin in his hand and regarding Eddie like he was some sort of fucking museum specimen. With those glasses, Richie was the real specimen here.

  
“Greg invited me. The guy who gave you the phone number.” Eddie muttered, and Richie laughed, still fiddling with the sugar packet and beginning to tap it against the table rhythmically.  
“Ohhh. Greg. I love that guy. He’s fucking hilarious. I met him at a stand-up gig like… 7 years ago. Okay, well that makes sense, I guess. Why it was so hard to find you. We’re like… totally not in the same social circles or like… life circles. You get me? But that’s fine. Maybe some of my unique, charming intensity will spice up your life a little.”  
“I have no intention of letting that happen in the slightest. Anyway, can you please get to the point? I have to get back to work. I have a busy schedule today.”  
“Yowza, sorry Mr. Big Shot.” Richie snickered, putting the sugar down on the table and crunching it beneath his fingertips. “It’s almost like you want to ditch me here.”  
“I do. I’m busy.”  
“And here I was, planning a big dramatic reveal. Live music, cinematic fireworks, gorgeous lighting… Okay, fine, okay. Here you go.” Richie reached to his side, pulling out a shopping bag. He plopped it onto the table, and a box of chocolates beside it. “My manager said that a box of chocolates was a decent apology, considering I don’t really know you all too well—”  
“I’m deathly allergic to nuts, and I have a lactose intolerance. But thanks, I guess. I’ll uh… find something to do with them.” Eddie replied awkwardly, pulling the bag towards him and peering inside. There was a neatly folded, brand-new white cable knit. It wasn’t the same brand he had been wearing, but seemed to be the same size as he pulled it out. And it was _nice_. Like, really nice. He looked at Richie over the garment, and the other man seemed to flush a little, clearing his throat and shifting.

  
“I tried to wash it and shit. But it uh… it shrunk. Like, even smaller than it already was. And the stain didn’t come out.”  
“ _Hey_ —of course it shrunk. It was a merino and wool blend.”  
“Yeah, whatever. I got a new one for you instead. I tried to find one that looked as close to the one you had.”  
Eddie didn’t know what to say. He turned the garment over in his hands. It was… really, really nice. And it was expensive – he knew exactly how expensive it was, but he tried to keep a straight face. The fact that Richie had gone out of his way to not only try and fix his sweater, but to get him a new, nicer one? Eddie couldn’t pin point the last time someone had done something so… nice for him.  
“Thanks. Like… really. You didn’t have to.” He finally concluded, folding up the sweater and putting it back into the bag. Richie laughed, seemingly a lot more awkward and tense now. There was a weird silence between the two of them, and Eddie pursed his lips, checking his phone just for the sake of doing something to break the tension.  
“I uh…” He began, his chest feeling tight and weird and he had to say _something_. “I think I was a bit of an asshole. I should introduce myself.”  
“Oh, nah, it’s fine. It’s honestly kinda refreshing.” Richie shrugged, picking up the previously discarded sugar packet to begin fiddling with again.  
“Eddie Kaspbrak. 35. I work in senior management in finances and insurance and uhh… That’s pretty much it, I guess.” He shrugged, and Richie’s smile returned. Not a grin, but something smaller. A little genuine, boyish.  
“Richie Tozier. Freshly 36. Comedian, actor on occasion. I like long walks on the beach and doing stupid things on impulse. I’m looking for—”  
“Shut up, Wentworth.” Eddie grinned. Like Richie, his grin was genuine, and it felt like he hadn’t smiled properly in a decade.

Turned out, he was glad he cleared his appointments for after his meeting with Richard-Richie-Wentworth-Tozier.

He ended up staying until both their coffees left rings on the table.


	3. Jurassic Park

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He pinned it, consciously, to the fact that Richie and himself were both guys with similar tastes. Of course, it had to be that. It just had to be. He thought about everything they talked about – things Richie had joked about. His endearing jabs that Eddie responded to with witty, cutting remarks. The genuine laughter that would peel out of him, the way his eyes would light up behind his thick-rimmed glasses, and he would tilt his chin up just a little. The way sometimes, he had caught Richie just looking at him. Watching him, with something Eddie could only really pin as interest.
> 
> As he crawled into bed, pleasantly drunk and warm with the alcohol in his veins, he continued to think about Richie. About the fleeting touches, how hot his skin was to Eddie’s touch, about how much he had felt comfortable there – more comfortable than he had ever felt growing up in his own home, or with his wife, or anywhere ever. Eddie didn’t want to think about it all too much – but he also couldn’t help himself.
> 
> There was just something about him. Something he couldn’t shake – and Eddie wasn’t entirely sure that he even wanted to, anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heeeeeyyyaaaaa,, heeeeyyaaaaaaaaa
> 
> i changed rating to explicit bc smut is gonna happen next chapter  
> for now enjoy eddie's endless internal monologue

Eddie was sure there was something wrong with him.

There just had to be, right? There was no other explanation for it – there had to be _something_ that could explain why he was experiencing what he was experiencing. It wasn’t like much had really changed in his life. He had just met a new person, and he met plenty of new people all the time. It was kind of part of his job description. But… this was very different. What had initially been a chance meeting that had left him filled with anger and bitterness, had turned into lingering curiosity, which morphed into… something of an obsession. It was shameful, really, and Eddie couldn’t begin to explain it or understand it if he tried. And he _had_ tried. He had never experienced this before, but it wasn’t… _bad_. He just still didn’t entirely understand why it was Richie of all people that he was so focused on. When he had told Beverly about his predicament, she had promptly erupted into a small fit of laughter and told Eddie he as an idiot. She wasn’t wrong.

After the scheduled apology-meeting with Richie Tozier, Eddie had left feeling _some kind of way_. He had gone into the meeting expecting the outcome to be entirely different. To hate a certain Richie to the absolute core because he was an _idiot_ and _insufferable_ and _dressed terribly._ And he was an idiot, sure, but so was Eddie when it came down to it. And his dress sense was questionable, yes. But he wasn’t nearly as insufferable as Eddie had originally pinned him to be. He had come to realise he had, quite possibly (definitely) been much too harsh towards Richie upon their first meeting. He had gone into the party defensive and bitter and angry at the world, and that had unfortunately long become part of how he interacted with people. He had known this for a while, sure – his therapist had called him out on it multiple times – but it had never really bothered him until now.

 _What_ kind of way had he felt, he wasn’t entirely sure, but it was new. And from that day forward, things felt… strange. Almost like he had somehow entered a dream-state, and Richie was an omnipresent sleep paralysis demon that made off-hand, inane remarks about whatever happened to be going through his head in that particular moment. Eddie tried to continue with his daily routine, following his strict day-to-day. He woke up, he exercised, he ate well, he went to work. But now, there was something else added to the equation. He found his mind always drifting back to this new, charismatic character.

They had begun texting regularly. What had started off as polite conversation, soon turned into the sort of casual texting Eddie did with his small collection of other friends. Which was weird, because Eddie was not really the sort of guy to text people in the first place. However, a few messages here and there turned into an underlying constant – Eddie would wake up to messages from Richie, and send messages to Richie, and that would continue throughout the entire day. Soon, it felt like Eddie knew a lot more about Richie than he ever had initially planned to know. He always had a million questions in his head for him; questions that had started off merely practical but had soon devolved into extremely personal. Favourite songs, what television series he was watching at the moment, what his newest set was about. He found that he found him charming, even when he made dumb jokes that didn’t land or when he didn’t think before he spoke. What initially had annoyed Eddie had begun to rub off on him because it was just so… distinctly Richie. It was like a breath of fresh air, in a strange way. But of course, he wasn’t about to go and say stuff like that. He didn’t want to come off as weird, or desperate; and he didn’t want to give Richie more fuel to taunt him over.

Richie travelled a lot – and it was weeks of constant texting and occasional calls (which left Eddie feeling weirdly giddy and nervous and made his palms sweat grossly) before he was back home in the area. Eddie wanted to meet up again, just for a coffee or a chat or something. After all, it wasn’t often at all he met people he genuinely connected and got along with. Sure, he had a few people that he hung out with from time to time, but he wasn’t exactly a socialite. But there was something about Richie that was admittedly (as much as he hated it) intriguing and addictive.

Eddie tried to focus as much as he could on his work, but he had been making a few mistakes in his distractibility. The company knew that he was going through the last stages of divorce with Myra at that time, so they were a lot more understanding than they usually were. And it wasn’t like he was fucking up in the same way Greg fucked up constantly. He was thankful that they pinned it on that; he had no idea how to explain it to them that he had met some guy and couldn’t get his mind off of him. It was becoming an issue. Eddie found himself thinking over conversations they had, mulling over if Richie would do this, or like this, or do that.

So yeah. Eddie was convinced he was dying or something, or finally all the stress had done some damage to an important part of his brain. Whatever it was, he was pretty certain it was fatal. He didn’t know why he was obsessing over this novel introduction into his usually calm and predictable life. Maybe it was because his life was so boring, he was actively seeking ways to screw it all up. Maybe it was because the divorce was starting to fuck him up more than he had initially expected it to. Maybe it was because Richie and he had just _clicked_ in a way that Eddie had never experienced before. It wasn’t even the same way he had clicked with Beverly, or Stan, or Ben, or Bill, or Mike even. It was on a deeper level. Their humour was on the same wavelength, and Eddie had no idea how to explain it even when he tried to explain it to Beverly. She had just smiled at him with one of her knowing smiles, one that made the corners of her eyes wrinkle just a little, and her irises sparkle beautifully, and told him that _sometimes, we just met people like that_.

Eddie wanted to know why he had never met someone like that in his life before that point – and why it had to be Richie Tozier of all people, but he found that he was a lot less lonely than he usually felt and admittedly in a better mood than he had been in years. Eddie had never had a best friend, and he found the concept a little juvenile now – but maybe that was what this was. The beginning of a really close connection with someone, one that he had apparently been missing out for his entire life.

Richie had been the one who had suggested their next meet up. It was not a meeting this time – but it was distinctly a _hang out._ He had explicitly described it as that, too. Eddie had tried to play it off cool and pretend like he was pretty booked for the entire week – but he ended up calling work and taking a day off so he could hang out with Richie for the night before and not have to worry about not getting enough sleep afterwards. As Richie had been interstate for a good while, he had told Eddie he wanted to hang out at his place instead of spending more time out in restaurants. Eddie felt a weird swooping in his stomach. He hadn’t ever thought he would be going back to Richie’s place anytime soon, but here he was – with the promise of a chill evening in with pizza. Eddie from the B.M (Before Myra) period, or even Eddie from the freshly A.M (After Myra) period would have said a firm _‘no’_ without hesitation. He didn’t _hang out_ with people, and he didn’t go to their houses when he barely knew them. _But_ , he reasoned with himself, he had been texting Richie constantly for weeks, so he did know him a little more now. And this wasn’t a party. It was what normal people did, with normal friendships, and Bev was always encouraging him to _try new things_ and _give things a go_. And it wasn’t really like he had much to lose at this point anyway, right? Right. _Right._

The next few days followed the same sort of routine they had as of recent – although, there was a new sort of nervousness that Eddie felt lingering beneath his skin. Anticipation, what-ifs. He couldn’t remember the last time he had gone to someone’s house with no real purpose. Even when he went to Beverly’s place, there was a purpose. A reason. He would go in and out, do whatever it was he needed to do. There was a distinct point where he could find a reason to leave. But this, this was an open-ended invite. The purpose was to just chill and hang out, and Eddie realised, as the day got closer that there was a problem with that. A critical flaw.

He was not a _chill_ person. Not by a long shot. He was the exact opposite of a chill person.

Uncharacteristically for him, he voiced such a concern to Richie during one of their never-ending text conversations. He wasn’t really good at talking about things that bothered him. He never had been – which had partially been the reason why he had taken _years_ to open up about things with his therapist. But something about Richie made it easy to just… talk about things. Maybe it was the facelessness of technology, but even over phone calls – Eddie found that if he wanted to, he could just tell Richie how he felt about things. He could vent, and Richie would always listen. Sometimes he would offer (usually bad) advice, sometimes he would stay silent, sometimes he would give horrible life anecdotes. But whatever it was he did, it left Eddie feeling a lot less… tense and wound up than he had beforehand. In this case, Richie reminded him that he could leave whenever he wanted. That it was just two guys hanging out, talking, just like they did over text and calls. Except there would be pizza. And when he put it that way, Eddie figured maybe, just maybe, he could manage. If only _just_.

The house looked a lot different than Eddie remembered it looking the few months ago he had last visited it. Given, it was cleaned up considerably. It was lacking the decorative touch of a slew of moonlight-alcoholics, and there was no bright lights or loud music thumping through the ground. Like this, Eddie could appreciate how nice it was. In comparison to his small, inner-city apartment, it was impressive and big. Though, everything about Richie seemed to be large, so it was hardly a real surprise. It was strange though, considering Richie lived alone. He didn’t have a girlfriend, Eddie knew. He didn’t have a wife, or kids, or anything. It was just him, alone, in a big house. Surely, it was something to do with status. Eddie often forgot that he was a celebrity. Like a legitimate one. He hadn’t watched any of his material yet – feeling that maybe that would be a bit weird and creepy, even if it was widely available to the general public.

He had even heard his name in passing on occasion – and once or twice, he had seen advertisements of Richie pop up randomly. It was weird, making the psychological connection that the man he was seeing on the side of the bus and in the subway was the same man he was talking to, the same man who had dressed like a 2000s frat boy before spilling seafood all over Eddie after misreading all of his social cues. Every time Eddie saw an advertisement, or heard someone mention Richie, it made him feel a little airy and weird – and he mentioned it in turn to Richie, who would laugh it off albeit a little awkwardly.

He did talk about his career from time to time, but it wasn’t something he seemed to really want to talk about that much. Eddie knew the bare bones – he knew he was a comedian, and he knew he was successful, and he knew that he had to lay low sometimes in order to avoid the paparazzi harassing him. He knew he had to travel a lot, and that he had money, but that was about it. Richie never really seemed to really want to get into it, so Eddie respected that; which was another reason why he hadn’t watched any of his shows. It felt far too much like he was prying into something personal than he was comfortable with. It was weird, but given, this whole situation was fucking weird.

Eddie sent a quick message to Beverly regarding his location, which was answered with a simple smiley emoticon and a thumbs up. Eloquent, as always. He stood at the door for what felt an inappropriate, freakish amount of time, shifting his weight from shoe to shoe as he stared at the doorknob and the doorbell with a frown. He was wearing something a little casual as far as he was concerned – wearing the apology-cable-knit Richie had gotten for him. It fit really well, but now it felt a little stupid as he stood in front of his door like a creep. But, he was here now. And Richie was waiting for him. And he had been thinking about this for days – so, he took a deep breath, and he knocked twice before he quickly shoved his hands into his pockets and waited.

It didn’t take long for Richie to answer the door. Eddie had a passing thought that he must have been close to it for him to be able to answer so quickly, considering how big his house was. It was weird – Eddie had sworn to himself up and down that he would never see Richie again for as long as he lived. But here he was, standing on his doorstep, planning on hanging out (whatever that even meant) for the night. He shifted his weight in his oxfords, painfully aware of every atom of his existence. There was a part of him – a large part of him, that wanted to apologise to Richie for how much of a dickhead he had been to him initially. But he didn’t know how to.

He had never wanted Richie in his life in the first place. His perfectly manicured, planned life. He was happy with the way things were – but he was starting to realise that maybe, he was just telling himself that. Maybe, he thought that being safe was for the best. Never taking risks. The party had been the first proper risk he had taken; the first thing he couldn’t calculate or quantify. And continuing to talk to Richie – although it had begun due to a feeling of obligation more than anything – had turned into the next big risk. He had never been a big risk taker, even as a kid. But that had been because of things that had long since disappeared from his life. His mother was no longer holding him back, neither was his small-backwater town that he had grown up in, and neither was Myra.

Maybe he had been a risk taker all along.

Richie’s face lit up the instant he saw Eddie on his doorstep. He seemed taller and broader than Eddie remembered. It was strange, because he was definitely the same Richie he had met at the party and the coffee shop and the same Richie he had been texting and calling. But it was also the same Richie he had seen in advertisements, and the one people talked about. Whereas Eddie was just… Eddie. Eddie, who worked in finance. Eddie, who worked a desk job and who faded into obscurity every day. And yet, Richie looked at him as if he was seeing his favourite movie star of all time – like Eddie’s name was the one people brought up in conversation, the one with the verified checkmark beside it on Twitter. It was contagious, his broad, goofy smile, and Eddie found himself unable to help mirror it in a sheepish way, his chest tightening a little in what he pinned to be most _probably_ nerves.  
“Hey, short-stack.” Richie reached out and ruffled Eddie’s carefully styled hair. Eddie scowled. His worries about their time together were slowly melting and filtering away. Things didn’t feel awkward or tense. It wasn’t weird, and Richie wasn’t looking at him like a freak for anything he had said to him over text or call that may have been a little out of left field. No. It was… warm, despite how cold it really was outside, and Eddie stepped into the large house with none of the bitterness he had walked in with the first time around.

Void of millions of sweaty bodies, Eddie could appreciate Richie’s place a lot more. It was just as big as it looked on the outside – decorated with various pop-culture memorabilia, it was a cross between the bedroom of some geeky high-schooler and someone with more money than they really knew what to do with. Eddie himself had quite a minimalistic decorating style – he liked his space to be clean and clear and catalogue-esque. But he had to give it to Richie on this one – his house was pretty cool.

“Is that—oh my god,” Eddie’s eye caught on something in particular, and he made a beeline towards it rather than follow Richie to where he assumed their designated ‘hang out’ location was, his eyes wide. “ _Dude_. Is that a legit crew jacket from the _Jurassic Park_ set? Oh my god. And teeth – those aren’t _legitimate,_ are they? They look just like the teeth from the T-Rex animatronic in the films!” Eddie rambled as he looked over the two items, not wanting to touch them just in case. The teeth were in a frame with what looked like a signed certificate of authenticity, the jacket hung proudly on the wall. Richie grinned, hands on his hips in what Eddie figured was his attempt to look cool and casual.

“Oh, yeah. They’re from the original set. They’re pretty cool.” Richie replied with a shrug, shoving his hands into his pockets. “You can touch them, it’s chill. I also have stuff from a bunch of other movies. I’m kinda into that sorta thing. Movies and comics haha. It’s stupid.”  
“Dude, it’s not stupid at _all_. This is so _cool_. I love this stuff.” Eddie grinned, gingerly touching the sleeve of the jacket before he turned to look at Richie who seemed to be watching him with a pretty intense expression that Eddie didn’t really get.  
“You do?” He shifted, and Eddie got a bit of a glimpse into what seemed to be insecurity; something Richie usually seemed to cover up as much as he could with jokes and general loud-ness that had initially bothered Eddie. Now, he was slowly beginning to understand. Just how Eddie would use his strict scheduling and cleaning and tight-assed-ness to help him deal with his plethora of insecurities and inner demons, Richie seemed to have his fair share of those too that he would try and mask behind humour and faux confidence.

“Yeah. I think it’s awesome. You should show me your collection sometime.” Eddie offered Richie a smile, Richie’s eyes rapidly scanning over Eddie’s face before he mirrored the expression with an almost-apprehensive smile of his own.  
“Sure, Edwardo. Maybe I’ll even let you hold my authentic lightsaber.”  
“Fuck _off_ you would.” Eddie laughed as they resumed their targeted walk, Richie’s hands still shoved into his pockets.  
“Dude, I so would. Even if it’s like, the same height as you, so I might have to help you lift it up.”

He almost seemed… no, he definitely seemed nervous. Eddie could see it now – he was fidgeting in his pockets, his gaze flickering from Eddie to a million other things. It was practically radiating from him. Eddie was thankful he wasn’t alone in his nerves and anxiety; but it was weird to think that Richie – famous comedian, party-thrower, constantly-there-to-comfort-Eddie-and-offer-bad-advice Richie – was nervous. What over? Was he possibly just as nervous as Eddie was about their scheduled hang-out session, despite his constant reassurances to Eddie that it was _no big deal_?  
In his self-involvement with his own anxieties, he hadn’t once considered Richie would feel an equal amount of anxiety over their time together. Why would he? He was just Eddie. Eddie Kaspbrak, he wasn’t a celebrity household name. He was just some _guy_.

The lounge room was just down the hall – it was where the bar had been on party-night, but it looked a lot different. There were fast food wrappers hastily shoved into the garbage bin in what Eddie supposed was a hasty effort to clean up before he arrived. Richie had pulled out some soda and cups for the both of them, as well as a menu for a local pizza place that was purposefully put down on the coffee table. Eddie felt his cheeks flush with warmth. He couldn’t remember when anyone had ever put this much effort in for him; and here Richie was doing the smallest things but the smallest things still showed that he _gave a fuck_ , and no one had really _given a fuck_ in this way before. It had always been in the wrong sorts of ways, but this was different. It wasn’t a looming, threatening, suffocating sort of way. It was genuine, like Richie just wanted to make sure this went well, and Eddie enjoyed himself. That made his stomach tighten and flip again, and he had to tilt his face away to hide the stupid smile on his lips and the burning blush spattering his cheeks.

“Make yourself at home, Clapback. Mi casa, etcetera. I have the pizza place on speed dial. You wouldn’t believe how fuckin’ great they are. They make the grossest, greasiest pizzas ever. Sloppy as shit. The guy who owns it, Paul, is like, my bro. I did my first gig at his parlour before I blew up.” Richie spoke as he flopped down onto the sofa. Eddie had a minute crisis as he tried to decide where to sit – eventually settling on the recliner beside the sofa Richie was sitting on and fucking _hell_ was it comfortable.  
“I don’t think I want to eat anything that you’ve described as gross, greasy, and sloppy all in one sentence. That sounds absolutely horrible. Like… a heart attack from grease-clogged arteries.” Eddie snickered, and Richie dramatically rolled his eyes, placing a hand over his heart.  
“Ouchie, wowza. Way to hurt my feelings as a host, Eds. You know, pizza is all I have. It’s all I _know_.”

It turned out, all of Eddie’s anxieties had been for naught. It was just like their never-ending text conversation and frequent phone calls – the back and forth bantering, the jokes, the stupid insults. Eddie felt like he could be himself without holding back at all. He wasn’t Myra’s Eddie, nor was he Sonia’s Eddie, nor was he Insurance Eddie, or even scared-of-life-post-divorce Eddie. He was just Eddie-Eddie. Eddie who, for once, wasn’t afraid of laughing too loudly. Eddie who bit back with witty comebacks and remarks, Eddie who didn’t care if he was drinking soda and eating artery-clogging pizza. He was having a better time than he felt like he ever had. They weren’t even doing anything really – just truly _hanging out_. They talked about everything and nothing. Movies, comics, dumb celebrity gossip, cryptids, mysteries, UFOs, cars. Richie had a lot in common with him – more than Eddie felt anybody else ever had. He felt nearly drunk on his presence alone. Over text, it wasn’t this… vibrant and intense. Eddie understood, completely, why everyone was drawn to Richie. He was charismatic when he wasn’t even trying – his wide, goofy smile was entrancing. He was attractive, even if he wasn’t conventionally so. But he was attractive in the way that was much deeper than just looks. Although, Eddie thought he really was handsome, too. He had a thing for guys like Richie – even if he hated to admit that. And his personality only helped that along.

After pizza, the two of them broke out a few drinks. Shitty, fruity alcohol that Richie really liked and Eddie was thankful wasn’t beer. They were deep in conversation about Lord of the Rings lore, and that in turn leaked into a discussion about retro arcade games they had both spent too many hours playing in childhood. It turned out Richie grew up in a rural town near Eddie had – so a lot of their experiences overlapped in a weird, twilight-zone sort of way. Eddie felt like he had known Richie for his entire life, and then some. He found as he got more comfortable, he moved closer. At some point, he had taken a seat beside Richie on the sofa rather than the recliner he had originally claimed. They continued joking around, and Eddie noticed that there was an increasing amount of fleeting touches here and there. Lingering, though he wasn’t sure if that was just in his head. He wasn’t sure if he was tipsy because of the alcohol, or because he could feel Richie’s leg against his thigh and could feel his laugh reverberate through the back of the sofa. Never in a million years would Eddie from a few months ago think that he would enjoy being around Richie so much. Richie with the terrible fashion sense, Richie with the fucking _shrimp cocktail_ and the loud music and the shutter shades.

“I wish I travelled for work.” Eddie mused as he opened another bottle for himself, lifting the grapefruit-flavoured liquor to his lips. He took a steady sip from it before he continued, and Richie was watching him intently with his elbow propped up on the arm of the sofa, his head resting in his hand. “I’m stuck in the same stuffy building with the most boring people alive. It must be interesting, you know. Being a comedian and a celebrity and stuff.”  
“Mmm.” Richie hummed a little absently, before he shrugged, and his gaze shifted to his own drink in his lap. “I guess, yeah. I dunno. When I started comedy, I was working as a short order cook on overnight shifts. I didn’t think it would actually like… you know. Become a ‘thing’.” He used air quotations, and Eddie brought his leg up to his chest, having toed his shoes off a while beforehand.

“I haven’t watched any of your stuff yet. But you’re obviously good. I mean… you have to be, if you’ve got that thing with Netflix. It’s weird, like… you’re a _thing_ , you know? I’m seeing advertisements, I hear people talk about you. You throw huge parties, have a huge house. You’re doing well for yourself. I guess I should be honoured you took time out of your busy schedule to hang out with a commoner.” Eddie snickered, elbowing Richie a little. Richie got a weird expression on his face, and he scrunched up his nose a little and avoided Eddie’s gaze.

“I don’t really have uh… a busy schedule. Apart from work stuff.” Richie admitted, before letting out a heavy sigh and looking up at Eddie with a cheesy grin. “So, I got plenty of time for you, commoner. Besides, hanging out with you is a whole lot more fun than parties and socialite shit. You’re like… _real_ , you know? You’re not full of shit. You’re like… brutally honest. And you’re not just my friend ‘cause it’s good publicity and your publicist told you to, or because I have heaps of money and cool shit.” Richie pointed out, and Eddie was taken aback for a moment, looking at Richie with his eyebrows raised. He felt that familiar blush on his cheeks again, _goddammit_. He hadn’t considered that. Sure, the money and the fame was good in theory. But Richie seemed like he was far from comfortable with it. “It’s like… I dunno. I like that my job is making people laugh. I wanna make people laugh, wanna make people happy and shit. But like… I dunno. It’s also kinda… not me, you know? I’m just some kid from a shitty town in Maine. My family was middle class, and now I have enough money to buy my folks four houses if they fucking wanted to, and I’d still have heaps left over. And I didn’t have my shit together before this so… I don’t really have my shit together now. I mean, I guess I admire that about you, Eds. You have your shit together.”

Eddie snorted a laugh, taking a drink as he rolled his eyes at Richie, poking his thigh with a sharp finger.  
“Richard. Richie. I’m going through a divorce. I have like… 3 friends, because I’m an asshole who doesn’t like people getting close because I have ‘issues’ with people as a general rule. I don’t have my shit together.”  
“Oh yeah? Well, why are you getting divorced, huh? You never told me that.” Richie probed, and Eddie wrinkled his nose up in clear distaste.  
“You really wanna know, Tozier?” He took another drink, and he was 86.4% sure he was tipsy at this point but didn’t care all that much surprisingly. “I’m getting divorced, ‘cause I married a woman so I’d get my mom off my back about it. I know, asshole, right? I only got married ‘cause my mom. I met a woman that she approved of, and I figured, fuck it. I’m gonna be alone forever anyway, just as well do it, right? So I married her, even though she was like _horrible_. And get this—get this, right? I’m gay. And I’ve known that this entire time. So yeah, that’s why. We were both miserable for obvious reasons, so we decided to get a divorce.”

  
Richie blinked, seemingly taking his time to process the information before he responded with a soft ‘huh’.  
“Well. You’re handling it pretty well. I mean… I guess? I dunno. I haven’t known a lot people who have gotten like… divorced. I mean… I haven’t even really had a proper relationship before.” Richie shrugged, and Eddie tried his hardest to mask his surprise – although, he clearly failed at it as Richie seemed to pick up on it and hastily added a; “I mean. I kinda have? It’s just sorta like… I haven’t found the right person for me. Plus I’m so busy with work and stuff.”

“Oh, of course. You don’t wanna make the same mistake as me, dude. Find the right girl before you get into anything serious. I mean… it must be easy getting into casual stuff with your celebrity status with like fangirls and stuff.” Eddie tried to make him feel a little better about the situation, and Richie seemed to shift back into his distant, uncomfortable territory.

“Yeah. Something like that.” He muttered, clearly not really wanting to discuss it any further. Eddie didn’t completely understand why – but he wasn’t going to push. If Richie didn’t want to talk about it, he didn’t want to talk about it. He never pushed Eddie to talk about anything he didn’t want to, so he was going to do the same for his newfound, unlikely friend. Sure, he was liking his newfound status of a risk-taker. But he wasn’t willing to risk fucking this up with Richie, when this was genuinely the most fun he had had talking to someone in years. He pinned it, consciously, to the fact that Richie and himself were both guys with similar tastes. Of course, it had to be that. It just had to be. He continued to turn all the details of their hang out over and over in his head, even as he ended up calling a cab to come pick him up from Richie’s place. He thought about everything they talked about – things Richie had joked about. His endearing jabs that Eddie responded to with witty, cutting remarks. The genuine laughter that would peel out of him, the way his eyes would light up behind his thick-rimmed glasses, and he would tilt his chin up just a little. The way sometimes, he had caught Richie just looking at him. Watching him, with something Eddie could only really pin as interest.

As he crawled into bed, pleasantly drunk and warm with the alcohol in his veins, he continued to think about Richie. About the fleeting touches, how hot his skin was to Eddie’s touch, about how much he had felt comfortable there – more comfortable than he had ever felt growing up in his own home, or with his wife, or anywhere ever. Eddie didn’t want to think about it all too much – but he also couldn’t help himself.

There was just something about him. Something he couldn’t shake – and Eddie wasn’t entirely sure that he even wanted to, anymore.

**Author's Note:**

> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯  
> Twitter: @ starcatarchive if you want to scream at me or something


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